


Except When It Wasn't

by tarie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The X-Files
Genre: Crossover, Crossover Pairings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-30
Updated: 2012-10-30
Packaged: 2017-11-17 09:17:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/550000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarie/pseuds/tarie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's November 1981 in Oxford. It was always about Sirius, except when it wasn't.   (Remus/Mulder, mention of Remus/Sirius, Mulder/Phoebe Green)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Except When It Wasn't

**Author's Note:**

> Backstory for Mulder was taken from [Episode 1.11 - Fire](http://www.insidethex.co.uk/transcrp/scrp111.htm) of _The X-Files_. For those of you who are rusty on X-Files, Mulder was not 'Spooky Mulder' until many years after his schooling at Oxford, so please be aware of that as you read.

**November 1981**

_ OXFORD, ENGLAND _

It was always about Sirius, except when it wasn't.

James and Lily had died a little over two weeks ago and Sirius had been locked up in Azkaban ever since that night. Remus wasn't sure which was worse - that Sirius had killed Peter and a bunch of innocent Muggles, or that he'd betrayed James and Lily to Voldemort. Both of those things were reprehensible and he was disgusted by them. 

Most of all, he was disgusted with himself. Remus was disgusted with himself because he had been so secretive the last few months. Maybe if he hadn't been off doing what he had needed to do, James and Lily might have asked _him_ to be their Secret Keeper instead of Sirius. He should have been honest with them. Maybe if he had, they would still be alive today. 

It was all his fault. Their deaths, Peter's death, the fact that little Harry was off only Dumbledore knew where.... What kind of wizard was he, anyway? No, what kind of _person_ was he? What kind of person was he to have put his own needs before those of his friends?

Even worse, what kind of person was he to be mourning Sirius' betrayal and imprisonment as though Sirius had also died? Like a part inside of Remus had died when Sirius - _his_ Sirius - had been taken away forever?

_Bugger it all_.

"Bugger it all," said Remus to no one in particular, lifting his half-empty glass up in a morose toast.

"Yeah," a very American voice slurred to his right. "Bugger it all."

"Good on you," Remus said, turning slowing in his chair, setting his glass down on the bar. He wasn't sure if he was talking to the bar, his glass, or the American chap. Not that it really mattered.

"Not really," said the American, his head on the bar.

"I'm inclined to agree," murmured Remus in response.

"Name's Mud- _Mul_ der." The chap lifted up his head and gave Remus a short, polite nod. One good look at this Mulder chap told Remus all he needed to know about him. Clearly Mulder had been to Hell and just got back. Burnt. Remus wondered if he'd been betrayed as well.

"Lupin," said Remus slowly, feeling foolish for offering only his surname, but oddly compelled not to reveal more than that.  
For some reason, Mulder found Remus' surname...something. Remus couldn't make out what it was exactly, but Mulder's snort and the twitching at the corners of his mouth couldn't be missed. 

"Well, the Wolf and the Fox meet in a pub. There's a joke in there somewhere," said Mulder, tossing back the remains of his glass. "But I can't be arsed to come up with it." He paused, then snorted again. "Listen to me. I've been at Oxford for three years and I still sound like a shmuck using Ye Olde British Slang." A beat. "Or do you-" He raised up his hands and made quotations with his fingers. "-'chaps' call it something different?"

Remus' brows lifted considerably; he had absolutely no clue what to say. The Wolf and the Fox? Surely he couldn't know... Could he? Or was that just some curious American thing?

Finally he settled for a polite "Pardon?"

"Nevermind." Mulder leaned back in his chair and surveyed the bar. After looking up and down it a few times, he sighed and hooked a finger over the lip of a bowl of broken pretzels by Remus' arm, sliding it toward him. Popping one in his mouth, he chewed a few times and pulled a disgusted face. "These are so stale, they've probably been here since King Alfred beat the hell out of the Danes." He forced a grin and popped another pretzel bit in his mouth. "Or should I say 'walloped'? Some Brits get pissed that I don't try to be more Britsh and some Brits get pissed that I try to be less American, so I'm not exactly sure what the rules are here. Do you like rules, Lupin?"

"Be whoever you are," Remus said slowly, feeling more than a little uncomfortable. Not very sage advice from him, now was it? He couldn't really be who he was, now could he? Even though he loathed it, he'd rather keep the real Remus Lupin under wraps than face a multitude of silver instruments.

"What if I don't exactly know who that is?" said Mulder, pushing the bowl of pretzels away finally. "King Alfred's Perfectly Stale Pretzels don't have anything on sunflower seeds, that's for damned sure." 

"They're bad for your teeth," said Remus automatically. "Get stuck in the gaps."

"Not if you've perfected the suck, shell-shuck, and spit method, they don't." 

"I wasn't aware that Oxford offered such refined courses," said Remus, signalling the barkeep over and ordering another round for Mulder and himself. 

"Oh, they do," said Mulder. "The Art of Eating Sunflower Seeds, Entry Level, followed by The Art of Indiscretion and Bollocks Chopping, among other things."

Remus coughed at that. "That sounds like a rather nasty course."

"Yeah, well, I know a rather nasty student who earned top marks in that one."

"Indiscretion is an awful thing," Remus said quietly, taking a generous sip of his drink and folding his hands in his lap.

"It is," Mulder agreed, "and even worse when you can put a name on it. Mine's named Phoebe Green. What about yours?" 

"Sirius Black," said Remus, closing his eyes. A lead weight settled in his stomach now and he wished that he could fall right through the floor and never come up again. Saying Sirius' name out loud like that, labelling him as someone who committed an Indiscretion, made it all the more real somehow. With Sirius in Azkaban and James, Lily, and Peter dead and buried for days now, it was sometimes easy to close his eyes and pretend that he forgot about it all. But speaking of Sirius aloud like that? Connecting his name with that label? It was real. It had happened. It had happened and there was this dense heaviness inside him where once light and love and a million other things he'd felt for Sirius had resided. 

"Sirius Black," Mulder repeated, raising up a hand to order more drinks. "You Brits sure do know how to name 'em, don't you?" He paused, thanking the barkeep and taking a large gulp of his refreshed drink. "The Dogstar. Not something I thought anyone'd be named after, but all right." A smirk. "I don't really have room to talk, though."

Remus shifted uncomfortably in his seat; all this talk of Sirius wasn't good for him. Seeing an opening to steer the conversation away from Sirius, he took it. "Why not, if I may ask?"

"My name is Fox."

Remus blinked. "I see," he said, a bit confused. "I thought your name was Mulder." 

"It is. Fox is my first name. As in 'crazy like a'," said Mulder, rolling his eyes. "It got old when I was six or so." His expression darkened considerably. "But Phoebe Green's doing her damnedest to make sure I really am, these days." 

Remus nodded and gave him a concerned look. Whatever this Phoebe Green did to Mulder, it had obviously done its damage properly. It had obviously done its damage properly and Mulder seemed as though he wasn't adverse to talking about it with Remus. It had been so long since Remus had just had a regular conversation with anyone, wizard or otherwise. This one, so far, had been the most pleasant one he could recall having since just before he'd left Hogwarts for good. Mulder was clearly a Muggle and would have no knowledge of Voldemort or Death Eaters or magic or the war that had plagued the wizarding world. Moreover, Remus felt comfortable around Mulder, like he knew him somehow, like he reminded Remus of someone a little. _Sirius_ , a small voice piped up from the recesses of his mind. Gritting his teeth, Remus pushed that traitorous thought away and nodded again for good measure.

"What has she been doing, if you don't mind my asking?" said Remus, sliding his glass in slow circles on the counter, watching the rings of condensation slide about the bar. His eyes met Mulder's for a moment, studying them earnestly before dropping them a bit lower, settling on his mouth. That _mouth_. His lips weren't too full nor were they too thin. There was a little dip in the middle, more pronounced than on most people, and it so reminded him of Sirius again. As Mulder spoke, telling Remus exactly what this Phoebe Green had done to him or was doing to him, Remus' eyes remained on his lips. The way they pursed together, the way they moved together when forming vowels and consonants and strung words together, the way the tip of his tongue darted out to wet them...it pulled at something inside of Remus, at someplace that he'd not allowed himself to _feel_ in so very long. 

Now only vaguely listening to Mulder speak, Remus would make the appropriate vocalisations at all the right pauses, his body turning traitor against him. His body was turning traitor and he couldn't be sure if it was of its own accord or of the alcohol or both. All Remus could be certain of was this _want_ rising up from within him, scratching and scrabbling and clawing its way to the surface like some bloodlust-mad _thing_. The draw of want and everything and nothing was becoming far too powerful to resist. Was this because solely because the desire to forget about Sirius was so great? Or perhaps was there a basic _need_ acting as the commanding force here? 

Remus didn't know. Remus didn't know and it didn't matter. What mattered was that he _wanted_ and he was going to have to work to get it. Round after round they drank and talked and the thing inside of him grew more and more demanding. 

He conversed with Mulder about Phoebe, about indiscretion, about knowledge, about power, about countless things until the barkeep swept the floor around them and flickered the lights, giving them a dirty, pointed glare. Mulder chuckled, popping a handful of King Alfred's Perfectly Stale Pretzels in his mouth, and slid off of the barstool, promptly falling on his arse. Americans never could keep up with a Brit when it came to drinking, Remus had noticed on occasions before at that very bar, and Mulder was no exception to that little rule. After helping Mulder to his feet, Remus slung an arm around his back, holding him up under the shoulders and leading him toward the door.

It was dark outside; the sun set hours before. The prospect of getting some sort of Muggle transportation to take Mulder where ever it was that he lived seemed very slim, so Remus decided it would be best to walk him home. Where ever that was. They shuffled slowly along the street, Mulder slumping more and more against Remus. Although he knew full well that Mulder was pissed - more pissed than him - Remus was trying his best to resist that pulling and pushing and tugging and burning inside of him. But then Mulder had to go and stumble slightly, grabbing onto Remus' cardigan for leverage, his face falling into that curve where neck met shoulder, breath warm and tickling against Remus' neck.

That did it.

The want writhing and seizing inside of him broke the surface and he could no longer ignore it. Remus could hold back no longer, taking hold of Mulder's jacket and hauling him back into an alley and against the side of a building with a low, primal growl. Mulder hit the wall roughly, his head lolling to one side. A strangled moan bubbled past Mulder's lips - _those_ lips - and Remus immediately covered Mulder's mouth with his own, sucking the moan right out of Mulder and taking it into himself. Oh, and that was not all Remus took, for he twined his fingers in Mulder's hair and twisted and twisted until he felt a hiss tumble into his mouth, which he swallowed and fed on and _thrived_. Hips rocked up against hips and he was so _pleased_ to feel that Mulder felt something, too, through the haze of alcohol and deep, fresh cuts of Indiscretion upon his soul. 

Remus snaked a hand down to the zip on Mulder's trousers, getting that out of the way and dropping to his knees. Mulder said nothing of his intentions; he merely pressed his palms against the brick behind him and pushed his hips off the wall and closer to Remus. Good. His eyes flickered up to Mulder's face, lingering on the smug upturn of the bottom lip. _So like Sirius._

But this wasn't about Sirius. This was about _Remus_ and what he needed. 

Apparently Mulder needed the same thing Remus did, for he took one hand off of the wall and curled it around his shaft, pressing the head of his cock against Remus' lips. Remus let out a gutteral moan of his own, then sucked the head of Mulder's cock into his mouth. Digging his fingers into Mulder's thighs, Remus pushed his tongue against the leaking slit, then began to make a thorough meal of Mulder's cock in earnest. He moved back and forth and back and forth on Mulder's prick, laving, licking, sucking, nipping, biting, taking as much of him as he could manage. Cheeks hollowed with effort and he increased the suction, dropping a hand to rub at his own confined erection. Although he was beginning to feel light-headed from his own need for release, Remus did not lay off of Mulder. He didn't lay off, not even when Mulder's fingers tangled in his hair and his nails raked across Remus' scalp and there were rivulets of blood trickling down his temples. Mulder bucked against him wildly, his cries - throaty and heavy - loud around them, enveloping them, and then he came. Mulder came and Remus didn't let go until he'd sucked the remains of the orgasm right out of him, lapping at the head of his cock and cleaning him up. Mulder slid down the wall a little, tugging on Remus' hair. Remus stood up, draping Mulder's frame with his own, rocking his hips against Mulder's, rubbing up and down and grinding until he, too, found a release from this want, this need, this command. Mulder rested a hand on Remus' side, running his fingers up and down it slowly. Of course Mulder had no idea, but that was the very spot where Remus' scar was. Sirius knew full well about that scar and he used to do exactly what Mulder was doing. Sirius used to move his fingers slowly along the length of the scar with feather-light touches, telling Remus that he was who he was and there wasn't anything Sirius would have changed about him. Exhaling sharply, Remus tried to tell himself that this hadn't been about Sirius. 

But that was a lie.

It wasn't always about Sirius, except when it was.


End file.
